


wild love

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fist Fights, Hotels, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Year Later, POV Alternating, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Season/Series 03, Public Nudity, Road Trips, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-18 01:14:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20630636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: It takes Billy thirty minutes to work up the nerve to leave the car.Years ago, this wouldn't have been an issue. Given the right mind, he would’ve walked up those front steps and barged into Harrington’s house, no questions asked, and showed off his prize to the world. After all, he worked his ass off for this, suffering through four years of awful teachers and even more horrible classmates. All for a piece of paper in a leather-bound folder. All to prove that he wasn’t as much of a meathead as everyone thought.But want as he might, he can’t move.





	wild love

It takes Billy thirty minutes to work up the nerve to leave the car.

Years ago, this wouldn't have been an issue. Given the right mind, he would’ve walked up those front steps and barged into Harrington’s house, no questions asked, and showed off his prize to the world. After all, he worked his ass off for this, suffering through four years of awful teachers and even more horrible classmates. All for a piece of paper in a leather-bound folder. All to prove that he wasn’t as much of a meathead as everyone thought.

But want as he might, he can’t move. Can barely bring himself to breathe, with the way his hands shake, his knee bouncing up into the steering wheel. Humidity seeps through the open windows, prickling sweat along his nape. These days, his lungs don't entirely work as well as he wants them to, and the stress of just walking to the front door leaves his throat dry, clicking when he swallows. Somewhere in the back of his brain, Neil is screaming at him, calling him names—but Neil isn’t here right now, and Neil certainly doesn’t care in the first place. Because if he did, he would’ve been in the audience tonight.

No one was there—no one except Steve, who now looks down at him from a hallway window, arms on the sill, just waiting. Waiting for Billy to move, to step out of the car, to do something other than grind his teeth and work a bruise into his kneecap. _Get off your fucking ass_, Billy berates himself, palming his knuckles with more force than necessary. _Just go in there, you fucking_—

Billy pops the lock before he can talk himself out of it, and nearly forgets to bring the notebook with him in the process. Just to ease his nerves, he stomps across the road and jumps the curb, walking through the grass. Steve disappears, and through the ground floor windows, Billy watches him descend the stairs, skipping steps as he goes. How Steve doesn't trip over himself, Billy has no clue.

What he does know, is that Steve opens the door and braces both hands on the jamb, somehow managing not to fling himself into Billy. “Hey,” he says with a smile, hair in his face. “You look… Did you even change?”

_No_, Billy wants to say. The most he did after the ceremony was hang out in the parking lot until everybody left and smoke halfway through a pack of Marlboros, against his doctor’s advice. Going home isn’t an option anymore, not while Neil is there, and tonight feels like a bad night to even try. Something in his bones tells him to not even bother—for once, he listens to intuition.

“Can I stay here?” Billy asks instead, avoiding the question in Steve’s eyes. He hands Steve the book and looks down at his feet, hating just how vulnerable he feels, how flayed raw he is, just from one event. There’s only so long he can keep up the façade, the careless charade—now, he can barely stand.

Steve flips open the cover, thumb tracing over the words Billy knows by heart—_Hawkins High School: This Certifies that William J. Hargrove Has Completed All Courses of Study. _“I’m really proud of you,” he says, stoking the fire burning in Billy’s cheeks. He strokes down Billy’s black-clad shoulder, suit jacket unbuttoned and left askew; Billy ditched the gown as soon as he got out of the building, and untucked the button-down along with it, half-tempted to rip it off just for the hell of it. Steve’s hand lingers a little too long, thumb dragging over the seam. “Did your folks come?”

“What do you think?” Billy says, terse. If anything, Steve’s frown deepens, his touch faltering. “Don’t pity me, Harrington. Bet your parents went to your graduation, probably threw a party, too.”

Sighing through his nose, Steve hands him the diploma. “Why do you always have to make this so hard?”

Billy shrugs and shoulders past him, placing the folder on the entryway table. His jacket, he slings over the back of the couch in the living room, afterward flopping onto the cushions. “Thought this was supposed to make me feel better,” he says and covers his face with a pillow. Here, in the darkness, he can admit things—serious things that he could never say to Steve’s face. “I’m—I’m almost nineteen, and what am I supposed to do now? Get a job? Shit, I’d be terrible in an office.”

“You and me both,” Steve laughs. The couch cushions deflate, and Steve lifts Billy’s feet, setting them in his lap. Which, that’s new—and so is Steve pulling off his shoes, dropping them onto the floor. “I’ve been out for a year and I’m on my third job. Pretty sure this town’s gonna run us both into the ground.”

Billy huffs into the pillow. Slowly, Steve’s thumb rubs circles around his ankle, lulling Billy into an unfamiliar sense of comfort, the tension bleeding from his muscles. It might as well be the closest he can get to peace, here in the quiet of a home he could never afford, with a beautiful boy massaging his feet like he has nothing better to do. He swallows, wills down that thought—_not now, and not ever_. Falling for Steve Harrington might as well be the end of his world, again. Except this time, it might hurt less.

His chest aches.

“I bought more shampoo,” Steve says, offhand. Billy almost—_almost_—kicks him in shock. “You ran out last time you were here, so I just figured.” The couch shifts slightly with his shrug.

Billy nods and finally removes the pillow, tossing it over the back of the couch. Steve’s subsequent eyeroll sparks a laugh, faint as it is. “Going soft on me, aren’t you?” he says, and delights in the flush rising in Steve’s cheeks. “Knew I liked you for a reason.”

_Wait_.

“Yeah, yeah.” Standing, Steve lets Billy’s feet fall onto the cushions. “Listen, it’s getting late, and tomorrow’s my day off. Wanna try to sleep as much as I can before my boss decides to ruin it for me.”

“Right, know when I’m not wanted,” Billy joshes and waves Steve off. “Promise I won’t be here when you wake up.”

Steve gives him a look—_that_ look, the one that knows when Billy’s lying, or trying to play off genuine kindness. Either way, he leaves Billy on the couch, but not before ruffling his curls in the process. “Congrats, anyway. If you need anything, you know where I am.”

And Steve leaves—not what Billy wanted, but it gives him a moment to think about tonight, and what tomorrow might hold. And the rest of his life, incidentally. He’s old enough now; given the chance, he could leave Hawkins in a cloud of dust and never look back. California is only a few days away if he planned correctly, and if he plotted it out, he could stay—get a job, work on the beach, just to do something other than wade in constant fear.

He could go anywhere, do anything—so why is he still here? And at Harrington’s house, no less. Blinking up at the ceiling, he lets out breath deep enough to deflate his chest, lungs protesting. _I need to get out of here_, he tells himself, and stands with the intention of getting back into the Camaro and driving until he sees daylight. But as much as he wants to—and he wants, with all of his heart—he can’t leave, not without telling Max goodbye, and not without…

_Not without him_, his mind supplies, all too unhelpfully.

Tomorrow, then. Tomorrow, he’ll make a decision—and hopefully, Steve will be awake to hear it.

-+-

Billy doesn’t talk much anymore, not since… Not since. Neither of them really like to think about it, and Steve avoids the subject whenever possible, just to stem Billy’s residual anger. Steve asked him about the scars last year, long after the dust cleared and Billy seemed more or less at peace with himself, but that conversation ended in slammed doors and screeching tires. Thankfully, without physical violence, something Steve has unfortunately come to expect.

Billy doesn’t channel his anger with his fists anymore. No, he uses his words instead, and that’s what Steve hates the most. Punches, he can deal with, but having to listen to Billy vent his frustrations laced with the threat of violence? That, he can go without.

But most of the time, he’s… quiet. Contemplative in a way Steve has never seen before, and in a way he doesn’t quite know how to handle. Billy explained it at one point, how his therapist was trying to help him externalize the trauma of a near-death experience, but most of the time, he wouldn’t speak, or even try. After all, what is there to say? Steve watched it happen, watched Billy fight off the Mind Flayer, only for the thing to impale him and leave him for dead. That, no one else will ever understand.

But Steve does—and getting Billy to talk about it with him is harder than it should be.

To his shock, Billy is still there the next morning, manning the stove with eyes half-lidded, hair wet and curling at the ends. A nearly empty mug of coffee sits on the granite island, another thing his therapist is getting him to try out. No alcohol before noon, and no cigarettes unless he absolutely can’t stand the cravings. Neither of which he’s stuck to, but he tries, and Steve respects him for that.

He doesn’t jump when Steve pats his shoulder in greeting; his eyelids flutter, though, and the tension drains away, a signal to _stay_, that he won’t fight. “You sleep well?” Steve asks and leans against the countertop, eyeing the blue flannel that definitely didn’t come from Steve’s closet. Billy watches him under fanned eyelashes, but doesn’t bother to button his shirt, unlike all the other times Steve wandered in on him.

Here, Steve admires his scars, the claws embedded into his sides, the gnarly gash splitting his breastbone in two. His fingers twitch, aching to touch, but he shoves the thought down and ruffles Billy’s hair, just to get a reaction out of him.

What he doesn’t expect, is for Billy to smile, his grin almost meeting his eyes. It’s progress—they’ll keep working on it. “Like a baby,” Billy replies, reaching to turn the burner off. “Get the toast.”

Before Steve can even turn around, four pieces of bread pop up from the toaster, moderately browned but not scorched. Together, they plate up scrambled eggs and ham and stand around the island, eating in companionable silence, so reminiscent to mornings in the past, when Billy didn’t run off to pick up Max before sunrise, when he gave himself a moment to rest, to hide away from the rest of the world. Steve’s house might as well be a haven for him—at least, that’s the only reason he can think of, for Billy staying over as much as he does.

The other reason, Steve pointedly ignores in his waking hours. At night is an entirely different question.

“What if we got out of here?” Steve asks before he can stop himself, knuckles white around his fork. Billy looks up, brows furrowed. “I don’t mean _here_, here, but I mean—I guess I do—”

“Out of Hawkins?” Billy supplies, and—yeah, that’s what he was going for.

“Something like that.” Steve takes of their plates after they finish, setting them aside. “Can I be honest with you?”

Billy smirks. “Are you ever not?”

“No—I mean, yes, but—Look.” Hands on his hips, Steve ignores the look Billy gives him, somewhere between appraising and curious. “I’ve got like… a week or two saved up at the paper, and I can just tell them I’m doing a big national story if we need more time. But I was thinking last night, we could just leave. Not forever but… Long enough to figure it out, you know?”

Slowly, Billy nods, standing a bit straighter. A light sparks in his eyes, familiar enough to make Steve forget for a fleeting moment, how they got here in the first place. “And here I thought you loved this shithole town,” Billy joshes.

Pushing off the granite, Billy walks over to Steve and crosses his arms. This close, Steve can feel the heat pouring off him, and he quickly suppresses the urge to reach out and touch, like always. Outside of this house, they might as well be two separate people—here, Billy is looser, bravado replaced with softness, something he probably would never share with anyone else. Steve takes solace in that, but begins to wonder.

“Look, I don’t like it here as much as you do,” Steve sighs, then rubs his eyes. “Haven’t exactly had a stellar couple of years, and the longer I stay here…” He stops, shakes his head. “Let’s just do this, okay? Don’t ask any questions, just pack your bags and we’ll go.”

“Wow,” Billy remarks, impressed. “I didn’t think you had the cojones to ask me out, Harrington.”

Impossibly, Steve blushes all the way to the tips of his ears. “I’m not—Jesus Christ, can you just make this easy for one second?”

“But what’s the fun in that?” Billy sidles closer, resting his hand on Steve’s hip, dangerously close to his own hand. “But whatever you want. But I’ll go on one condition.”

Steve blinks, cheeks still aflame. “And what’s that?”

Ever so slightly, Billy’s façade falls, softening enough to let Steve in. Secretive. “California,” he says, simple as anything. “Even if it’s just for a few days. I’ll show you around, we’ll hang out on the beach.”

_I want to go home_, Billy says with everything but his voice.

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “Yeah, we can do that.” Despite having his license, Steve has never left the Indiana state line. Leaving will be good for him. Good for them, even. His hand slips, enough for him to feel Billy’s thumb graze his pinky—and he swears, he feels Billy touch him back.

-+-

Max leaves for summer camp the following week. In the interim, Billy gathers up everything important that he owns, just in case he doesn’t come back. And, not that Neil would go through his belongings the minute he disappeared for more than a day, but he doesn't trust his father even in the slightest, and he doesn’t want prying eyes happening upon unmentionables. Susan might let him off, but if Neil caught wind…

It doesn’t matter.

The minute he drops Max off at Hawkins Middle and sees off the bus bound for the Indiana wilderness, Billy heads back home with fear in his gut and dread festering in the back of his mind. No one is home, but that doesn’t mean they couldn’t come back. Neil could forget his wallet, or Susan could come home early, or… _Just go home_, he tells himself, the leather of the steering wheel squeaking with his grip. _Go home, get your stuff and leave_. “Shouldn’t be this hard,” he says aloud, barely audible over the rumble of the engine.

To his relief, Neil’s truck isn’t in the driveway when he pulls up. Rather, Steve Harrington leans against the mailbox, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and sunglasses pushed up his nose, like he belongs there. Sometimes, Billy wishes he did.

As soon as he parks, Billy reaches over to crank down the passenger window. His stomach swoops at the sight of Steve poking his head in, the rising sun haloing his hair. “Figured you might need some company,” Steve says, patting the window jamb. “Did you tell Max where you’re going?”

“Of course,” Billy nods. He shuts off the engine before climbing through the driver’s side window, just for the hell of it. At least Steve finds it funny, no matter how hard he tries to stifle a laugh. “You gonna help me get my bags, pretty boy?”

He swears, in the shadow of the early morning sun, Steve flushes. “Yeah, yeah.” Steve waves toward the house. “Just hope you didn’t decide to pack the whole house.”

Billy didn’t bring much with him from California the first time around. Just his clothes and his car, and the stereo system sitting on his desk, bought secondhand from a shop in Glendale. All of the accumulation he gathered since settling down, he could care less about: the magazines, the notebooks and knickknacks either purchased or pilfered from shops around town. What he does bring, is almost every piece of clothing he owns and all of his toiletries, along with a set of curlers he refuses to admit are his. “Seriously, they’re just—I don’t even use them.”

“I always wondered if they were natural,” Steve says, in spite of Billy’s heated cheeks. “Seriously, you got a curling iron too?”

Billy grabs it from the countertop and waves it around, earning another laugh. “Yuck it up, or you won’t get either.”

Steve snorts, bowing. “Whatever you say, your highness.”

For another few minutes, Billy paces the room and checks drawers and cabinets and the closet, all to see if he forgot something vital. So far as he can tell, he has nothing to leave behind—besides the necklace currently dangling from between Steve’s fingers, the pendant glimmering in the dull light filtering through thick curtains. “You used to wear this a lot,” Steve says. Wary, Billy watches Steve step closer, only to brush his hair away from his neck. “I thought you lost it, after…”

_I wish I did_, Billy thinks. A year later, and he can barely look at the thing on the best of days, like somehow, an object he loved for majority of his life had become so… tainted, just from association. “It was with my stuff, at the hospital.” Billy shrugs.

He lifts his chin for Steve to string the chain around his neck, nimble fingers clasping the ends together. This close, Billy can feel Steve breathe, can feel the warmth of his fingers as they dance over his nape. Closing his eyes, he allows himself this one moment of comfort, however small it is.

“Where’d you get it?” Steve asks. He takes his time backing away, but Billy relishes in his touch, the kindest thing he’s felt in a long, long while.

Only after Steve lets go does Billy look at him, heart pounding wildly against his ribs. “My mom,” he says, nearly a whisper. “Got it for Christmas the year before she left.” And he leaves it at that. His throat grows tight the longer he thinks about it; thankfully, Steve leaves it alone. He’ll have to talk about her someday. Hopefully, that day is far off.

Steve nods. Billy watches him swallow, the urge to latch onto his neck almost inescapable. His body aches with the urge to reach out, to shove Steve onto the bed just to hear what noises he could make. “It looks—It looks good,” Steve manages, and taps the pendant with his nail. “You should wear it more. Sentimental value, right?”

“Sure,” Billy says, tongue thick in his mouth. _Put your brain back in your head_. Before he can blurt anything he might regret later, he reaches for his bag and slings it over his shoulder, wincing with the sudden strain. Whether Steve notices, he doesn’t stick around to find out. “Hope you brought a map, Harrington.”

-+-

Steve does own a map—several, actually, all previously located in his BMW’s glove compartment, but now relocated to his lap. Not that he’s ever gotten the chance to use them, but a few years ago, he picked up a few Rand McNally’s just to see what the rest of the country looked like, even if it was printed on paper.

Parked outside Melvald’s General Store, Steve flips through the page for Indiana and Illinois while occasionally glancing up to see where Billy is, or more likely, what he’s sneaking into the shopping cart. Really, he should’ve gone in there with him, but Billy can hold his own. So long as he doesn’t buy the entire liquor cabinet, they’ll be fine. Hopefully. The last thing either of them need is to get drunk on day one.

Billy returns with four paper bags in both arms, just as Steve has finished marking down a prospective route with a red pen. Reaching over, Steve pops the door open and pushes the front seat down, allowing Billy to throw everything—gracefully, this time—into the back seat, alongside a green Igloo cooler. “Hope you found the someplace cooler in there, because I’m sweating my balls off,” Billy complains once he throws all the sodas inside. He hands Steve one before he situates himself behind the wheel, popping the cap on his own and chugging half of it on one go.

Sweat beads from Billy’s temple, a few stray droplets wandering down his cheek, eventually mingling with the Mountain Dew that drips off his chin; sweat soaks through his tank top in places, sticking to his skin unpleasantly. Yet, Steve can’t look away, too caught up in Billy’s profile to do much other than clench his thighs tighter, knuckles white around his pen. _Oh_, he thinks, breath caught in his lungs—_So that’s what that feels like_.

Crushes and longing, Steve is all too familiar with—lust, less so.

“I’m—Yeah, I found something,” he says after he regains control of his tongue. A breeze blows through the open windows of the Camaro, the air doing nothing to cool the heat burning across his skin. “It probably wouldn't be worth it driving all the way to Chicago to start off on 66, but we could cut across from Indianapolis—”

“66 was decommissioned,” Billy says, lips once again pressed to the lip of his can. _He really needs to stop doing that_. “Like, last year. Didn’t you read the paper?”

Steve blinks, the gears finally firing in his brain. Of course it is—this map is almost ten years old. “Shit,” he breathes and wipes away the sweat from his forehead. “Okay, so new plan. We’ll just have to…”

“Look, here.” And Billy takes the map from him, the paper crinkling in his grasp. Steve has half the mind to snatch it back from him, but resists. Though, if they did end up tearing it, he could always buy a newer one. “Cut across Interstate 70 to St. Louis, then hit 44 until you get to Oklahoma City, then it’s 40 all the way to Barstow.”

“Right, right.” Steve nods, scratches his chin. “I forgot you did this before.”

“Didn’t have this last time, though.” Billy hands back the map before turning the key in the ignition. The Camaro rumbles to life, her steady thrum sparking a strange sense of joy in Steve’s chest. They’re doing this—they’re really doing this, leaving Indiana for the entire other side of the country. “Had to follow Neil all the way here, stayed in the shittiest hotels you can think of. Didn’t think I’d get the smell of piss out of my nose for months.”

“Gross,” Steve snorts. He takes a moment to drag his wallet out of his pocket, then flashes a black card at Billy, whose eyes widen. “I’ll save you the trouble this time, deal?”

It takes a second, but Billy laughs, his smile full and rich, just like Steve always remembered. “Then let’s put your dad’s money to good use.”

“Right.” Thumping his head back, Steve listens to the engine and feels the wind pick up as Billy backs out of the parking space. “Sure as hell isn’t doing any good here, anyway.”

-+-

Years ago, driving from California to Hawkins behind the back of a U-Haul van was Billy’s own personal hell, forced to pull longer days and even longer nights just to make it across the country to fester among the corn fields and the cows. Max sat in the front seat, scared out of her mind while Billy took his frustrations out via his tape deck and the steering wheel, and all the while, Neil and Susan led the way, uncaring about the lives they were uprooting, all to get a better grip on their children.

_Their_ children, like Billy wanted to be a part of this family, this town. What he wanted was over two thousand miles away. He can’t bring himself to laugh about it anymore, not that it was ever funny to begin with.

Somewhere past the Missouri line, the tension begins to ebb away from Billy’s shoulders, the weight of the world no longer bearing down. The anger, a constant ever since he stepped foot onto Indiana soil, softens into something more palatable, a resentment he can manage. He pats the steering wheel in time to the cassette in the tape deck; for the first time in months, it doesn’t hurt to breathe.

Having Steve here helps, strange as it is to admit it. Steve, who talks whenever the music dies down, whose smile never falls, not even when they get caught up in city traffic. Steve, who Billy just wants to twine fingers with over the center console. Even in his dreams, he never imagined a day as nice as this, the summer wind whipping through the windows, sun beating down overhead, a warm body next to his.

Yet, it hurts; the longer Billy thinks about it, the more he wants, and the more he becomes convinced Steve would never want this. Want him, rather. But this was Steve’s idea, and Billy went along with it, solely because deep down, he wanted this as well. Leaving Hawkins had been on the top of his list of priorities for years, and this was it—and if he got his way, he would never come back.

But he has to. If not for Steve, then for Max. Right now, though, he forgets the rest of the world, and lightly punches Steve’s shoulder as the next song comes on, content with his life for this one moment alone.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh before,” Steve says somewhere after the five hour mark, bare feet up on the dash and seat belt abandoned. Billy lost his shirt a while ago, the heat almost too much to bear; his chest warms even further when Steve’s gaze falls on him, hidden behind black lenses. “I mean, you’ve laughed, but you’ve never been happy about it.”

“Sure I’ve been happy about it,” Billy huffs, jabbing Steve’s shoulder with his index finger. “Always fun to see you trip over yourself.”

Steve just shakes his head, then hangs a hand out the window. They exchanged the highway for local routes a while back, replacing tree-lined drives with open fields and single-family homes; it just feels better like this, with no destination in mind, just driving for the thrill of it. Billy hasn’t been able to do this in a long, long time, not without a curfew and eyes on him at all hours.

Which, of course, Steve picks the perfect time to remind him of. “Did you tell your dad?”

Billy’s heart rises, lodges itself in his throat. _Breathe_, he tells himself. It’s just a question, but the anger sparks regardless. “Listen,” he says, as calm and measured as he can manage. “This is the last time I’m gonna mention my old man, got it?” To that, Steve nods, and Billy sighs. “Yeah, I told him. Said I needed some time, figure out what I’m gonna do with my life. You know what he told me?” He laughs, hollow, crunching the steering wheel. “‘Don’t let the door hit you.’”

Steve’s smile fades, melting into a frown. “I’m sorry,” he sighs. Billy waves him off. “I’m serious, man. Why do you think I let you stay over like I do?”

“Pretty face?” Billy smirks, and tries to put his heart into it.

If anything, Steve sputters and pinches the bridge of his nose under his sunglasses. “I’m just saying, I know what it’s like.”

_You don’t_, Billy thinks, but doesn’t cut in.

“And I know if I had the chance, I’d be anywhere but home. Hell, when you’re not here, I’m normally passed out on Robin’s couch. Just… the quiet gets to me after a while, and it’s not any better when my dad’s actually home, y’know.”

Sincerely, Billy wishes he understood half of that. Wishes he knew what it was like to not have parents around at all hours, to not live in fear every hour of the day. But loneliness, he knows, intimately. The isolation of not having anyone to talk to, of being trapped in his own mind—he can’t stand to be alone with himself, somedays.

“It’s just… nice to have someone around,” Steve finishes, rubbing the back of his neck. “What’re friends for, after all?”

Friends—Steve considers him a _friend_. “Gonna make me blush,” Billy deflects. This time, Steve punches him back, breaking into a laugh. “You sure do know how to ruin a moment, don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t say I ruined it,” Steve says, sly. He rests his arm atop the center console; Billy’s fingers twitch around the steering wheel. “You are my friend, though. Like… best friend, maybe, or one of them. Just thought you’d wanna know.”

Sighing through his nose, Billy nods. His chest hurts again, though this time, not from the phantom pain that’s haunted him for the last year. _I’m too young to be in love_, he thinks. _Too young and stupid_. “Thanks,” he says, and pats Steve’s wrist. Friendly, something guys do as a parting gesture. Steve smiles, though, and Billy will take that as a win.

-+-

Steve books the first motel they find in Vinita, Oklahoma, just as the sun is beginning to set and the summer heat finally breaks for the evening. While he may have no preference for what constitutes a good hotel, Billy apparently has standards—and this is nice. Two double beds decked out with a red-and-white comforter set, a mattress with clean-smelling sheets and no suspicious stains, and a bathroom with all of its amenities, including a working shower. This might as well be heaven to him.

“I am gonna sleep so fucking hard tonight,” Billy groans the minute he falls into bed, apparently oblivious to Steve lugging their bags into the room. “How long was that?”

“Ten hours,” Steve says, hissing when he drops their bags by the desk. They really should’ve taken his car. At least then, he wouldn't have to suffer with a bad back for the rest of their trip. “Seriously, does your car have air conditioning?”

Billy waves a limp hand at him, apparently more interested in napping than chatting. “More fun this way. You’re telling me you’ve never wanted to just hit the gas with the windows down?”

_Sometimes_, Steve thinks. He gives a noncommittal shrug and sits on the opposite bed, moaning the second his back hits the mattress. “Oh, _fuck_.”

“Got that right,” Billy chuckles. “Hey, you think this thing’s got vibration?”

Steve’s eyes snap open. “What?”

Billy lifts his ass up off the bed, and Steve takes a moment to appreciate the angle before Billy pulls his wallet out of his back pocket, fishing around for quarters. He comes up with two, and promptly plinks them into the metal contraption beside Steve’s bed, then presses the plunger. Steve freezes, the entire mattress shaking underneath him. To his shock, Billy flops down next to him, hands pillowed behind his head while the entire world rocks, not unpleasantly, but definitely mechanically.

“I read about this once,” Billy sighs, patting Steve’s stomach.

Steve turns his head, only to find Billy’s head within inches of his own, hair drenched in sweat, skin glistening with it. If Billy were sin before, he might as well be blasphemy now, an Adonis he can’t even fathom touching. “You read?” he jests, to Billy’s lecherous grin.

“I read lots of things,” Billy boasts, eyelids fluttering. “I even read the articles in Penthouse.”

Steve _laughs_, his lungs fighting for air. “I bet you do,” he says when he can breathe again. Only then does he realize that Billy’s hand hasn’t moved; if anything, he’s gone lax, face pinched in apparent rapture. Steve’s face heats—_He’s not_—“Dude, are you getting off right now?”

“I think it found the spot,” Billy moans—

And Steve hits him with a pillow, rolling off the bed. “Gross, man,” he huffs, but stifles his amusement behind both hands. “I’m getting a shower, you do… whatever you’ve got going on there—”

Billy grabs his wrist before he can escape, fingertips pressed deep into his wrist. “There’s a lake, about a mile from here. Saw it on the map earlier, figured I’d head over to check it out. You in?”

He should say no. Everything in Steve’s mind tells him to just shower and sleep, but Billy looks at him with such enthusiasm, the light in his eyes intoxicating. Billy could talk him into anything, and he would go along with it, just to see him smile. “Sure,” he decides, probably against his better judgment.

The look Billy gives him is worth it, though. “Then come on, chill out. Still got like, ten minutes on this thing.”

“Bummer,” Steve says, but joins him anyway, if only to release the ache in his spine.

The lake, like Billy said, is about a mile away—down a railroad track, in the dead of night. It took Steve months after Starcourt to get used to the dark again, without the constant fear of something murderous lurking around every corner, or Russians gearing up to kidnap him, but this time, leaving no body behind. One of the downsides of Hawkins is the severe lack of streetlamps in the more residential parts of town, leaving only porchlights to guide the way some nights.

But even then, Steve could see at night when he needed to, his way illuminated by headlights. Here, he leads with a flashlight in hand, the beam barely doing anything to light the tracks ahead. Billy lingers closer than necessary, his footsteps mirroring Steve’s own. Two sets of tennis shoes crunch gravel, and occasionally, Billy kicks something and sends it skittering across the ties, ranging from rocks to discarded pieces of wood. Each time, Steve jumps and elbows him, and Billy just laughs.

“What’s got you so scared?” Billy taunts and locks elbows with Steve, now walking hip-to-hip.

Steve could answer that—_If you saw what I’ve seen, you’d never look at the world the same way again_—but decides against it. Because for some reason, Billy seems to be intent on getting as close as he possibly can. His warmth bleeds into Steve’s elbow where they touch, shoulders brushing with every step. Billy’s fingers touch the inside of his wrist, nails teasing his palm.

If Billy asked to hold his hand, Steve wouldn’t say no.

“It’s pitch black out here,” Steve answers, clearing his throat. Reasonable enough; still, Billy presses closer, the tips of his curls grazing Steve’s bare skin. _Distracting_. “There could be like, bears or something, or coyotes.”

“In Oklahoma?” Billy laughs. He jostles Steve, nearly toppling him over one of the rails. “Yeah, you’re more likely to get attacked by a cow.”

Steve looks around, shining his flashlight into the abyss. “Shit, there’re cows?”

“Not here, dipshit.” Physically, Billy drags Steve off of the tracks and heads directly into a thicket of trees. This is it—Billy’s going to kill him and dump his body, or feed him to the wildlife, or—“You’re jumpy, anyone ever told you that?”

“Not really,” Steve squeaks. “Just thought I was careful.”

“You’re a total flake,” Billy jabs, tugging him harder through the leaflitter. A squirrel runs off when Steve catches it with the light, its beady eyes leaving him launching into Billy’s arms. Where, incidentally, Billy stays, arm wrapped around Steve’s neck, almost constricting. “See? Baby.”

“I’m not a baby,” Steve pouts and pushes away. “Come on, I think I see something.”

Something, as it turns out, is the lake, with the moon reflecting off its green surface and the stars shining bright in the sky. Distantly, he hears the cars passing on the interstate, and cicadas scream in the surrounding trees, a verifiably symphony if he ever heard one. Billy adds to the noise by pulling off his shirt the second he breaks away, going for his belt immediately after.

All Steve can do is stand there and watch, heart pounding as Billy shucks off his shoes and strips down to his briefs. Vividly, he remembers what Billy looked like back in school, all solid muscle and tanned skin, both every girl’s fantasy and every man’s envy all at once. Under the moonlight, he’s so much different, from the scars embedded into his skin to the newfound freckles dotting his chest; the pendant hangs between his pecs, bouncing with every step.

“You gonna chicken out now?” Billy asks, thumbs tucked into his underwear. He shouldn’t look, but he does, a winded breath escaping his lungs when Billy tugs them off, leaving him utterly naked. He grins wide enough for Steve to believe he’s happy, and maybe, he actually is. “C’mon, Harrington, you a man or what?”

“I’m a—I’m a man,” Steve says, somehow managing to not trip over his tongue. Billy turns and dives headfirst into the murky water, his absence giving Steve enough time to gather the rest of his nerves and strip as quickly as possible.

_Just two dudes, swimming in the middle of nowhere_, Steve thinks, cheeks hot enough to melt ice. “Totally normal,” he whispers to himself. Billy surfaces and runs both hands through his hair, wringing water from the strands, and Steve audibly groans from the way his muscles flex, the way the moonlight hits his face, his chest shining with sweat—

“Nice hard-on,” Billy quips—Steve covers his crotch, praying that the mortification makes him soft. It doesn't. “So you’re a chicken and a horndog.”

“I am not,” Steve shouts.

Rather than fight, he sprints the short distance separating them and launches into the water, his world diminishing to the brown depths and the silence hidden beneath the surface. From below, he spots Billy’s hand reaching down, and he grabs it, allowing Billy to drag him back up and straight into his arms.

_Too close_, Steve’s mind supplies, but that doesn’t stop him from edging closer, right into Billy’s personal space, and then some. A hand lands on Steve’s bare hip, thumb tracing over the tight muscle there; if Steve had any chance of softening before, he doesn’t stand a chance now, not with the way Billy looks at him, with lust in his eyes and heat in his touch. _He doesn’t want this like I do_, but maybe, Steve begins to think, maybe he does.

A few months after the mall, Steve dreamt of satin sheets and honeyed lips on his skin, hands caressing, delving low but never quite reaching the mark. Guilt plagued him for days afterward, and he never mentioned it to anyone, not even Robin, despite her valiant attempts. That dream can’t even come close to this, to the feel of Billy’s hands on him, encircling his waist, both pressed to the small of his back.

“What’ve you got to be afraid of?” Billy asks, a challenge in his eyes. His tongue traces his lower lip, and Steve struggles, desperately, not to give in.

But he _wants_. “Lots of things,” Steve says, placing a hand to Billy’s chest, only to feel his heart race under his palm. Billy cocks his head to the side, baring his neck for Steve to kiss, to _take_, if he were so inclined. “Your driving, for one,” he says, shivering.

“I drive perfectly fine,” Billy smirks. Eyes half-lidded, he tugs Steve closer, one of his hands traveling decidedly lower and—_Nope, that’s my ass_. “You though, need some practice.”

“I need practice?” Steve huffs. Billy grins wider, purring deep in his throat; the sound resonates in Steve’s chest, playful yet haunting. “Billy, what’re we doing?”

All too abruptly, Billy relinquishes his grip, the water splashing with his retreat. Not too far, though—if he wanted, Steve could still touch him, could grab his bicep and drag him close. “You make this shit too easy, you know that?” Billy says, a hint of sadness in his tone. Steve’s heart breaks just watching him, the openness in his movements now more rigid. _Same as ever_. “Bet you could get anyone to fall for you with those eyes.”

_But you did_, Steve thinks, and clenches his fist. _You fell just as hard_.

-+-

_Billy wakes to a hand wrapped around his neck, calloused fingers digging into his windpipe. The motel is gone, like it was never there to begin with, like it was just a dream; instead, he looks at the light blue walls of his bedroom through the tears in his eyes, traitorously falling down his cheeks. That only angers Neil more, and he delivers a punch to Billy’s gut, hard enough that he can feel it, breath ripped from his lungs. _

_“What’d I tell you?” Neil asks, rough as a gravel road. “What’d I tell you about seeing him?”_

_Oh, he remembers this day—the day Neil broke his nose and blamed it on a bicycle accident in the emergency room. Blood spills from his nose, seeping into his button-down—he can’t breathe, can barely even think. _

_“Answer me,” Neil orders, his grip tightening. Gasping, Billy claws at his hands, only for Neil to grab one and twist his knuckles. He broke his hand, too—that, he knows. “What’d I say?”_

_“Don’t hang out with—with faggots,” Billy chokes. Blood slips past his lips, dying his teeth. “Or you’ll be one of them.”_

_“And what does that make you?” Neil asks, shoving Billy harder into the wall. “Answer me.”_

_“Better off dead,” Billy sobs_—and wakes, to a closed windpipe and hands around his throat. His own hands—he’s awake, and Steve is there, a palm to his cheek while he shoves something into one of Billy’s hands. His inhaler—where did Steve find that?

“Take this, okay?” Steve urges, the panic in his eyes unsettling. “It’s a dream, Billy. Just breathe, you with me?”

Steve helps guide the inhaler to his lips, and Billy inhales around a gasp as he pushes the plunger; relief doesn’t hit him immediately, but he does cough, airway clearing enough for him to breathe like he isn’t being chased—or choked, for that matter. “Fuck, get off me,” Billy wheezes, slinging a limp arm in Steve’s direction.

Reluctantly, Steve lets go, but doesn’t leave the bed; for that, Billy will thank him someday.

Minutes pass in a dizzying blur. The air conditioner hums somewhere in the background, and cars rumble by on the interstate; a local news station reports that thunderstorms are in the forecast for today, all the way to Tucumcari. The sun is barely in the sky, early morning light filtering through the curtains.

Amongst it all, Steve waits, hand dangerously close to Billy’s hip. Billy tries not think about that, mostly concentrating on breathing and clearing his mind, counting to ten like his therapist told him. It doesn’t work. Steve’s hand carding through his hair, though, does. “Where’d you find my inhaler?” he croaks, finally opening his eyes enough to find Steve looking down at him, lips pursed.

“Your glove box, yesterday,” Steve answers. His shoulders slump. “Was looking to see if you had any gum. I didn’t think you took anything home from the hospital.”

Billy shakes his head. “Doc said it’s asthma, but he wasn’t in the operating room, so what does he know?” Sitting up on shaking arms, he coughs, then wipes the spit from his chin. “Fuck, I can’t go back home.”

Gently, Steve palms Billy’s shoulder, then his neck, digging his fingers into his nape. His foot twitches, involuntarily, when Steve finds a particularly sensitive knot. “You can stay with me,” he says. He pulls away for a brief moment, only to sit at Billy’s back, kneading the knots in his shoulders. “You can keep the guest room. Not like anyone’s gonna use it, or we can get an apartment, or… We’ll figure something out.”

“No we won’t.” Billy curls in enough to shrug off Steve’s touch, fists clenched over the rumbled bedsheets. “I’m fucking—I should be dead. I should’ve died, but I’m not, and now I can’t sleep because every time I think about going back home, I might as we’ll’ve died all over again. You don’t—You don’t get it. You don’t know what it feels like, knowing that no matter how hard you try, all you are is just a fucking reminder.”

A weight presses along his spine; Steve’s hair tickles his nape, and two strong arms wrap around his middle, holding him tight. “I’m sorry,” he says, and Billy’s eyes sting. “I know it doesn’t help, but I’m here.”

“Never did apologize for trying to break your face,” Billy says, wiping his nose. “There’s that.”

Half of him expects Steve to give him some snide remark, or even shove him away. He does neither, instead pressing a kiss to his shoulder. Barely there, but Billy feels it regardless, his stomach dropping. “I get it, but that doesn’t make it right.”

“Story of my life,” Billy huffs. A tear spills free, and he brushes it away. “Be lucky you got friends, Harrington. ‘Cause me?” He sighs, bows his head. “No one’s ever wanted to stick around for long.”

“If this is your way of trying to get rid of me, then you’re gonna have to try harder.” Smiling into his shoulder, Steve pats Billy’s stomach, then shifts closer, his side pressed into Billy’s back. “I don’t give up that easily.”

“So I’ve heard.” Straightening up, Billy makes his way to the edge of the bed, tremors beginning to fade away. Another few minutes, and this will all be a memory. “Well? You gonna sit here all day, or are we gonna get on the road?”

“What was last night about?” Steve asks in one breath.

Billy freezes, fear seizing in his gut. That—he hadn’t meant that. Not entirely, but Steve had been so close, and for one moment, he thought… “I don’t know what to tell you,” he says, scrubbing his jaw. “What that was—”

Steve amends with, “I mean, I’m not complaining,” and Billy turns his head fast enough to nearly crack his neck. If anything, shame heats Steve’s cheeks, his eyes turned to the floor. “Just kinda… hoped you would.”

Billy blinks—blinks again, his brain-to-mouth filter apparently on vacation. Steve wanted it—Steve wanted _him_. “Well, well,” Billy laughs and grabs Steve’s shoulder, overenthusiastic. _Steve Harrington likes me_. “Never would’ve put it past you, Harrington.”

“Yeah, don’t get cocky.” Steve rolls his eyes. “You fondled my ass, man, you can’t get out of that one.”

Smiling, Billy shakes his head. This, he never expected—this, he’ll try to hold onto. “Guess I can’t.”

-+-

As beautiful as the rural streets and suburbs were yesterday, Oklahoma and Texas are… bleak. I-40 stretches as far as the eye can see, surrounded by nothing but dirt and fields and flyspeck towns with populations to match. The hours stretch on endlessly, and Steve finds himself counting cows along the side of the road, the tape deck turning to white noise the longer he sits there, baking in the summer heat.

He finally said it—not so much in those words, but now Billy knows, and didn’t leave him on the side of the road for it. Whatever this feeling is, whether it’s lust or admiration or, God forbid, _love_, Steve doesn’t know, but he plans to roll with it. The tension loosens in his chest, and he breathes easier—that, and Billy holding his hand helps.

Never before had Steve pegged him for being physically affectionate, especially in such confined quarters. Gingerly, Billy pries Steve’s hand from his thigh and laces their fingers together, draping them over the center console. “You’re gonna crash driving like that,” Steve chides, to Billy’s smirk.

“What, never wanted to hold a girl’s hand in the car? I’m shocked.” Billy squeezes his hand tighter and wiggles in his seat. “Really missing out, Steve. You ever take a tour of the backseat?”

Steve laughs before he can properly formulate an answer to the question of _hey, you wanna fuck in the back of my car_? “At least take me to dinner first,” he says, not entirely a lie. He never exactly got to wine and dine Nancy like he wanted, and Hawkins doesn’t exactly have the liveliest dating scene. Going somewhere other than a fast food place would be nice—maybe a diner, if they get into town before all of the restaurants close.

Where they’re ending up today, he has no clue. But the smell of rain lingers on the horizon, clouds gathering in thick, black billows. At this point, rain would be a blessing.

“There’s a place on the pier,” Billy mentions in a lull between songs, his tone gone soft. “Spent almost every day there for a few years, after Susan showed up. Think I’ll take you there, show you off. Two guys like us?” He shoots Steve a grin, sunglasses falling halfway down his nose. “Think we’d make a hell of a team.”

_We probably would._ “Sounds like it,” Steve agrees. “I’ve never been to the beach before.”

Billy cocks a brow. “Seriously?”

“I mean, we were supposed to go to Florida one year, but dad got called back to work.” He shrugs, hates the resentment in his voice when he says it. It wasn’t the first time it happened, and certainly won’t be the last. “Kinda stopped hoping after a while.”

Billy hums, letting out a breath through his nose. “I’m gonna teach you to surf,” he decides, like Steve has ever stepped foot in the ocean in his life. “You can swim, right?”

Steve huffs a laugh. “You think I can’t? I got a pool in my backyard, man.”

“Lots of people with pools can’t swim.” Billy winks. “I’ll just have to teach you then.”

“Uh-huh,” Steve says, and thumps Billy’s hand against the console. _Why do I feel like this is a trap_?

-+-

The only restaurant open past six in Tucumcari is a diner about two blocks from their motel. Fork between his lips, Billy watches rain pound the street outside, drops trickling their way down the glass windowpane. The clink of cutlery fills his senses, along with nonsensical conversations from locals in adjacent tables. Cars drive past, kicking up water on the asphalt. Steve picks at the last of his burger, looking just as tired as Billy feels; dark circles loom under his eyes, and his entire body sags, his hair still wet in places from the rain.

“It still freaks me out,” Billy admits, leaning back in the booth. Fork set aside, he opts to bite his thumbnail. His cigarettes are back at the motel; two days, and his skin is crawling. Steve looks up, abandoning his dinner to listen. “Sometimes I close my eyes and I’m… back there, with that thing trying to eat my face.”

Steve drops his hands into his lap. “It all happened so fast,” he says, head listing backwards. “I was flying by the seat of my pants most of the time, just trying to survive, but you were… You weren’t even there, were you? In your head. ‘Cause I saw you in the car, and I didn’t—That wasn’t you looking back at me.”

“Thanks for the repair bill, by the way,” Billy chimes in. Steve doesn’t entertain him, not that he expected him to.

A year later, and Billy still can’t remember what exactly happened, and part of him doesn’t want to try. The past is the past, and the mass disappearances have been chalked up to just that—disappearances. But unfortunately, he knows the truth, or part of it, the part the thing _allowed_ him to remember. The rest of it, his mind has thankfully blocked out.

But Steve knows. Steve always knows everything, including apparently monster-related activities around town. “I was gonna get laid that night,” Billy admits, picking up the fork again, just for something to hold onto. “That’s the last thing I remember. Next thing I know, this little girl’s in my head, and I’m fighting this… What the fuck was that thing?”

“We’re calling it the Mild Flayer,” Steve says, waving a hand in explanation. “The kids come up with these names. They come from this weird alternate dimension and they’re really… really ugly.” He laughs, hollow. “Supposedly the gate’s closed now, so that’s that.”

“Just like that?” Billy asks, to Steve’s nod. “And you’re sure?”

“Look, I’m just assuming.” Forcibly, Steve leans forward, elbows atop the Formica tabletop. “Joyce said it was closed, and she was there, so I’ll take her word for it. But I… I get it. I’ve known about these things longer than you have, and I’ve killed plenty of them, but it wasn’t hitching a ride in my brain. What was that even like?”

Billy shrugs. “Cold,” is all he can think to say. “Just… cold. Like I was stuck in a freezer for a week. And I just kept seeing this shit happening, and I couldn’t…” He stops, reaching for a cigarette that isn’t there. “You ever feel that helpless? Not knowing if you’re gonna be alive after all of this, like your next breath is gonna be your last.”

To his surprise, Steve nods. “All the time.”

“It was gonna make me kill Max,” Billy says, covering his eyes. “Shit, my own sister. I kept screaming and begging, and it wouldn’t listen, and after a while, I just… blacked out. Then I wake up with a tube down my throat and your big fuckin’ eyes staring at me.”

Steve snorts, probably unintended based on the horror in his eyes. “Sorry, sorry.”

“Laugh all you want, past is the past.” Billy turns to look outside, watching the rain steadily pick up. “Just glad it’s over.”

“Me too,” Steve says. The toe of his tennis shoe rides up the back of Billy’s foot, out of sight of the other patrons; Billy’s cheeks heat regardless, and he watches a leaf floating down the street with the intensity of a dying man. “Can I admit something?”

“What’s on your mind?” Billy asks, leaning back.

Steve offers him a smile, soft and secretive. “I’m glad you came. And that you’re here, y’know. That too.”

Billy doesn’t return the gesture; he does catch Steve’s foot with his own, though, pressing the length of their calves together. “You’re a sappy romantic, you know that?”

“I try,” Steve says, and Billy falls, just a bit more.

-+-

Steve wakes around midnight to the sound of rain pelting the parking lot, its monotony comforting—the lack of Billy’s quiet snores, though, less so. Opening his eyes, he finds their room door open a few inches, and beyond it, the curve of Billy’s shirt-clad back, hunched over underneath the awning.

_He’s still here_, Steve thinks, heart settling. Not that he expected Billy to leave, but just seeing him gives him more comfort than anything else in the world.

Stumbling out of bed—not as good as last night’s, but still comfortable—he grabs his jeans from the foot of the mattress and tugs them on, too lazy to do the zipper fully. Not like anyone cares at this time of night; if it didn’t mean leaving the room, he might sit around in his underwear all day, given the chance. Outside, the rain pings even louder, and humidity clings to the air; cigarette smoke wafts with the breeze, and the Zippo clicks, a single flame sparking.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks. Billy looks up at him, the tear tracks on his cheeks illuminated by the spotlight in the center of the motor court. _Oh_.

Absently, Billy pats the dry patch of concrete beside him. Steve sits with little prompting, leaning against Billy’s side. He takes the lighter and sets it between them, and replaces it with his hand, blood rushing when Billy dovetails their fingers together. “It’s okay,” Steve says above the storm, and shudders when Billy rests his head atop his shoulder, seeking the comfort no one has probably ever given him, or at least not in a long time. “Another dream?”

Shaking his head, Billy stubs out the butt of his cigarette. “Just thinking,” he says, gravel-rough. “I know, I do that.”

“You do,” Steve joshes. He allows the moment to pass, breathing in the scent of Billy’s shampoo in the interim, curls damp from sitting in the elements. “Are you the big spoon or little spoon?”

Billy sputters and pulls away, the look on his face hilarious. “Am I a what?”

“You know, spoons.” Worming his hand free, Steve presses his palm to the back of his other hand. “Spooner or spoonee?”

“Oh my God,” Billy says, exasperated. “This is the dumbest way I’ve ever been asked to get in bed.”

Steve nudges Billy’s shoulder with his own. “What do you expect me to say? Hey, Billy, I know you’re sad and all, but do you wanna—”

Billy kisses him, cutting him off. He tastes like toothpaste and ash, tongue darting out enough to tease the seam of Steve’s lips. Steve helplessly gives in, cradling Billy’s cheek in his hand. It shouldn’t feel this good, to have Billy so close, a hand on his hip, fingertips dancing beneath the hem of his shirt; if anything, he returns the favor, capturing Billy’s lip between his teeth while he cards through his hair, tangling his fingers up in his curls.

They should take this inside, away from the prying eyes of whoever is awake at this hour. Steve can’t help but relish in Billy’s touch, though, breath caught in his throat, tears prickling the corners of his eyes. “Little,” Billy says in a brief lull, pressing a wet kiss to Steve’s jaw. “Little spoon.”

“Right,” Steve murmurs, blinking against the light of the streetlamp. He tugs Billy in for another kiss before pulling away, making it to his feet. “I’m gonna spoon the shit out of you.”

He can’t help but laugh with Billy’s grin, and offers a hand; Billy takes it without preamble, and follows him inside, practically tripping over his feet in his eagerness. The rest of the world can wait—for now, Steve has Billy, and nothing else.

-+-

Something goes wrong.

Maybe he wasn't being careful enough, maybe he wasn’t watching his neighbors. Maybe he got too comfortable and someone took notice, followed him, kept him in their sights.

Whatever the reason, Billy finds himself at the business end of a baseball bat with Steve at his back, nose bleeding and possibly broken. Billy can’t speak much for himself, what with the bruised—if not cracked—rib and split lip, blood dripping off his chin and hitting the pavement. Behind a truck stop—New Mexico/Arizona border. They should’ve kept driving—They should’ve _ran_.

“My mama told me ‘bout people like you,” the man drawls, both hands on the bat. He has to be a little younger than Neil, with a smaller gut but wilder hair. Just him, now; his accomplice lies unconscious, taken out by Steve’s right hook, all before the other goon clocked him good. “Fuck you think you’re goin’ lookin’ like that?”

“You’d know, wouldn’t you?” Billy shoots back, fists raised. His split knuckles ache. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a broken two-by-four and intentionally waves in that direction, disguising it by flipping his wrist. “Since you followed us all the way out here.”

The guy scoffs and takes another swing. Billy ducks, and Steve rolls toward the cinderblock wall, grabbing the two-by-four in the process. “Nobody likes a cheater,” the guy shouts and charges at Steve, giving Billy enough time to launch at him, seizing him by the throat. Both arms around his neck, Billy yanks him backwards; even then, his feet don’t touch the ground, and the guy grabs his wrists, threatening to break them—

And Steve runs forward, wobbling as he goes, and nails the guy in the stomach, knocking the breath out of him. Granted, Billy would’ve appreciated if Steve hit him in the head, but that works too. He crumples to the asphalt, and Billy springs free, stumbling back a few steps. He can’t breathe—He can’t _breathe_—

“Billy, come on,” Steve calls, rushing to Billy’s side. One-handed, he shoves Billy towards the Camaro, all the way on the other side of the lot. The guy isn’t moving, hopefully out of shame. Who attacks two dudes at the pump, anyway? “Come on, come on.”

Steve doesn’t let him drive, and for the first time, Billy doesn’t protest, too busy trying to keep his throat from closing up. The engine turns over, tires squeal; in the rearview, past the dust in the air, Billy watches their assailant stand, and walk off.

“Hate these fuckin’ hick towns,” Billy wheezes. He rifles through the glove box while Steve keeps his foot on the gas, the accelerator red-lining. “Dude, slow the fuck down.”

“You slow the fuck down,” Steve shouts back, but eventually does, only once the speedometer hits one-hundred-ten. No cops in the rearview—perfect. “Holy shit, what was that?”

Billy doesn’t bother to answer until after he finds his inhaler. “Regular people,” he coughs, plunger to his lips. “Think he followed us from the hotel?”

“Honestly?” Steve laughs and wipes his nose, his hand coming away bloody. “I don’t have a clue. I wasn’t really thinking—”

“You gotta think, man,” Billy says, hand to his chest. Lesson learned—no more fights. “We gotta think. No more splitting up, especially out here.”

“Yeah. Yeah, right.” Steve sniffles, then looks down at his lap. “Shit, I hope you know how to get blood out of the seats.”

“Not my first rodeo.” Billy waves the inhaler at him. “Next place you see a Burger King or some shit, pull over. I think your nose is broken.”

Steve shakes his head; blood dyes his teeth when he speaks, the sight souring Billy’s stomach. “Trust me, I know what a broken nose feels like. Think he just got me good.”

_That’s no excuse_. “Your call,” Billy concedes, and slides down into his seat, until his feet hit the floor.

-+-

They stop in Winslow for the night, about an hour short of their intended destination; another hour in the car, and Steve might pull his hair out, and nothing Billy could do could stop him. The receptionist doesn’t even bother to look him in the eye at the front desk, not does she pay any mind to the tissues stuffed up his nose and his equally battered friend holding a can of Pepsi to his swollen lip. “Five dollars, don’t get blood on the sheets,” is all she says, and she hands Steve a key without looking up from her book.

Somehow despite Steve’s apparently unlimited budget, the hotels keep getting worse. The minute Steve steps through the door, the scent of molding carpet assaults his sinuses; the television doesn’t work, and the water pressure is next to nothing, but it’s all they had left. One king bed, and free breakfast if they make it to morning.

“This is how we die,” Billy laughs, then winces into the soda can. “Can’t believe we’re gonna be murdered in the middle of fucking Arizona.”

“It could be worse,” Steve says, not quite believing himself. It could be worse, yes, but how? _There could be a hole in the ceiling_. At least the door locks, and the air conditioner works; considering just how hot it is today, that might as well be a blessing in itself.

Tending to injuries remains the most important priority—only, Billy won’t let him come anywhere close to his mouth, despite the definite bruise forming around his lower lip, the cut dangerously close to needing stitches. “You’re the one with the busted nose,” Billy complains, but Steve backs him into the sink anyway, pressing a wet rag to his lip. “I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can,” Steve says. “You’re lucky it wasn’t any worse.”

“Bitch had a ring.” Billy shakes his head and pulls the rag away, flipping it over to the other end.

For all the times Billy handled him in the past, his touch might as well be made of glass now, delicate in a way that makes Steve melt. Tissues pulled free and tossed into the trash, Billy wipes away the dried blood from his chin and beneath his nose, careful to not rip open whatever’s already clotted. “You ever been tested for it before?” Billy asks, eyes narrowed in concentration.

Steve blinks, fighting the urge to sniffle. “Tested for what?”

“You know what I’m talking about,” Billy huffs, and—_oh_. _That_. “You always played it safe?”

“I—Yeah,” Steve manages, swallowing under Billy’s scrutiny. “Never got tested, but I’ve only ever… Me and Nancy were each other’s firsts.”

Billy’s lifts a brow, lips ticking upwards. “Now, I find that hard to believe,” he chides. “You, King Steve, saving it all up for one girl?”

Steve rolls his eyes and takes the rag, holding it in place. “I’ve been a little busy lately, if you haven’t noticed. You ever see me bring a girl home when you were there?”

“Never saw you bring a guy home either,” Billy adds. Which, true. Not that Steve hasn’t thought about it, but Hawkins is a small town, and word travels fast. How that conversation would fare with his parents, that their golden boy was dating a _man_, he had no clue. Billy had been hard enough to explain—Billy _will_ be hard to explain, when they get home. “Never would’ve thought you’d be into dick.”

“You’re making this a lot harder than it should be,” Steve muffles into the rag, only furthering Billy’s grin, until his lip splits and he reaches for another rag atop the sink. “See? That’s karma.”

“It’s something, alright,” Billy groans. “Fuck, there goes my plans for the night.”

_Plans_. “Your turn.” Leaning against the wall, Steve nudges Billy’s foot with his own. “Past partners, go.”

Under the fluorescent bulbs, Billy’s face flares red, all the way down his neck. “I’ll save you the runaround. I’m negative. One of the tests they ran when they wheeled me in, to see if they needed to just let me die and save everyone the trouble.”

Not what he asked, but it’s still an answer, and a terrifying one. “No one really… talks about it back home. Sure, you see stuff on the news, but—”

“I had a—a boyfriend,” Billy cuts in, eyes pointedly staring at their feet. “He got… real messed up, man. Dropped out of school, started hanging out with this guy. They used to shoot up and he’d come back to my place totally trashed, out of his mind.” He blinks; a tear falls, spilling onto the rag. “I didn’t see him again ‘til he called me one day, asking me to take him to the hospital. That’s the last time I heard his voice.”

“Shit,” Steve breathes. “Did he—”

“Overdose,” Billy says. “But he had it. Real bad. Freaked me out, and I couldn’t risk it. And then I meet you here.” He stops to poke Steve’s shoulder. “You’re the first guy I’ve kissed in years.”

Steve smiles and ducks his head. “Did I break your streak?”

Rather than reply, Billy steps closer and tugs Steve’s hand away; blood no longer spills from his nose, thankfully. “I wanna do right by you,” he admits, forehead to Steve’s shoulder. “You make me wanna be good.”

Tears well in the corner of Steve’s eyes. Barely, he wills them back and cards his fingers through Billy’s curls, his breath trembling when he exhales. “You are good,” he says, and feels Billy shudder. “Great, even. Really good kisser.”

Billy snorts, his body shaking. “Too bad I got a busted lip. I was gonna pull out all my best moves, too.”

_Too bad_. “You wanna nap?” Steve asks. Billy nods, tucking his nose into the crook of Steve’s neck. “Still got a few hours before dinner.”

“We can wait,” Billy sighs.

Steve nods, hides a kiss in Billy’s hair. They can.

-+-

The wildness of Arizona’s hills turn soon into the bleak desert of San Bernardino County. Palms greet them at the border, and the desert winds blow through the windows. Dirt flies off of the side of the road; dust devils stir up amidst the chaos, lasting for a few seconds before retreating into the sky.

The minute they make it to Los Angeles County, Billy breathes a little easier, the tension easing as the minutes pass and the traffic picks up. Steve rubs his thigh as they slow to a crawl, sunglasses pushed up his nose. A bruise colors just beneath his eyes, hidden for the moment, but Billy touched it this morning, ran his fingers over the dark circles while Steve slept. Hawkins feels like so long ago, almost a fleeting memory. Two years of his life, wasted in a flyover tow. But there, he found Steve.

And now, Steve is here, in the passenger seat, mouthing along to the words on the radio.

The motel they rent overlooks State Route 1, and beyond that, through the window and past the tourists, is the Pacific, its waters the same blue he always longed for. _I’m home_, Billy thinks, and palms away the wetness on his face.

“For such a tough guy, you're a big crybaby,” Steve says, not unkindly. Warm arms wrap around his middle, and Billy sighs, almost a whimper. “You really do miss it here, don't you?”

Shakily, Billy nods. “I died, Steve. I died, and the last thing I thought, was that I’d never get to see it again.”

Steve sighs, his breath warm over Billy’s shirt. “What time does the sun go down around here?”

Billy looks over his shoulder, squinting to find the clock. 6:27. “Around eight,” he says. “I know a spot about an hour from here, where no one goes.”

“You wanna go? With this traffic?”

“Traffic’s the best part,” Billy chuckles. Not a complete lie, but at least with someone there, he can talk, and sing to his heart’s content. Briefly, he wonders if anyone will rent boards out at this hour, and whether or not the bungee cords are still in the trunk. “Ready to bust your ass?”

“Oh boy,” Steve mocks, and Billy just laughs.

-+-

The sun hangs low over the horizon, bathing the landscape in oranges and reds, deep purples looming high above. Steve sits on a threadbare beach towel, burying his toes in the dry sand, and looks out at the swelling waves crashing against the shore. The sound blocks out the scattered traffic on the 1, immersing him in the moment, watching Billy wade a few dozen feet offshore, straddling his board and waiting for the perfect break.

Everything about it feels surreal. Last week, they were in Hawkins, and Billy was graduating high school while Steve edited copy for men who never apparently learned to spell. Minutes ago, Billy led him into the ocean and kissed him with salt on his tongue, and laughed when Steve fell face first into the chilled waters of the Pacific. For the first time in two years, after the gate and the monsters and everything else, relief sweeps through Steve, knowing that it’s over, for good this time.

Sitting here, Steve admires him from afar. Billy really is beautiful, with his hair pulled back with a tie, the last dregs of sunlight baking his shoulders; in another life, he might have been a professional surfer or a model. Though, he supposes, no better time than the present.

A wave swells, catching Steve’s attention, and evidently Billy’s as well. One minute, he’s paddling out to meet it, and the next, Steve watches him stand and drop into the break, only for the barrel to crash into the surf, but not collapsing in on itself. A few seconds later, Billy appears from the far end of the wave with his hand poised in the water, shaky on his feet. For all his grace, he falls harder than Steve expected, and the wave crashes around him, sending his board towards shore. Breath caught in his throat, Steve waits for what feels like hours, before the wave settles and Billy’s head surfaces, hands smacking the surface, shouting as loud as his lungs will allow.

“Holy shit,” Steve says, breaking into a laugh. He runs over to the water’s edge and waits for Billy to swim to shore, his board already there, waiting. “Are you supposed to wipe out like that?”

“Give me a break, it’s not a bike,” Billy joshes and makes his way to his feet. Water runs off his skin in rivulets and drips off his curls, all of him illuminated by the setting sun. His shorts sag enough for Steve to see the vee of his hips and the hair trailing lower, and only then does Steve realize that he can have this, that he can touch all he wants now—and he does.

Billy melts under his palms, mouth soft and pliant when they kiss, and Steve brings him closer, chest to chest, a hand lost in Billy’s hair. “You said something about the backseat a few days ago,” Steve hums against his lips. Lust keeps him close, has him nipping Billy’s throat, sucking wet kisses up to his jaw. “Or are you busy?”

“What does it look like?” Billy says, light and airy as Steve feels. Strong, steady hands rest atop the small of Steve’s back and dip lower, grabbing his ass in full; Steve yelps and tugs Billy’s hair, entirely by accident. That doesn’t stop Billy’s pupils from dilating, though, mouth parted in a soft, barely-there moan. “That’s how it’s gonna be, baby? Can’t wait five minutes?”

“Well, I’d like to not be arrested to public indecency,” Steve says, only to hiss when Billy _spanks_ him under the fabric of his shorts, afterward rubbing the mark. “Dude—”

“One more set,” Billy promises, sneaking another kiss. “Then I’m all yours.”

Steve swallows, drags him into another kiss. _Can’t wait_.

-+-

_So much for public indecency_, Billy thinks belatedly, with Steve towering over him, sucking heated marks into his skin without a single ounce of hesitation. Sightless in the dark, he relies on his sense of touch to guide him, digging his fingers into the long, heated expanse of Steve’s back. Tracing up the curve of Steve’s spine, he cards his fingers through Steve’s hair, moaning into his kiss. Wet, incendiary—how he’s lasted this long is a miracle.

“Want you to fuck me,” Billy admits, and grabs Steve’s ass for emphasis, dragging their hips together. They really should get out of their shorts, but it seemed more convenient at the time, the added friction doing wonders for their stamina; even the sight or the feel of Steve’s cock at this point could set him off, but he _wants_. “Know what it’d feel like? Bet it’d be tight.”

“_Fuck_,” Steve groans, his next breath a shuddering wreck. He palms Billy’s hip, and Billy rides his languid thrusts, cocks slotting alongside each other beneath tented fabric. Lips touch Billy’s neck, sliding up the column of his throat, only to latch onto the spot beneath his ear, the spot that always makes him weak in the knees. “Can’t—not here, Billy,” Steve hisses, but reaches into Billy’s trunks anyway, stroking up his cock with a loose fist.

Billy grips Steve’s hair by the root, hips bucking into his grip. Too good—_too much. _“_Shit_, you think I’m gonna last like this?”

“We can always go back to the hotel,” Steve taunts. His thumb presses to the underside of Billy’s cock, teasing the slit just enough to make Billy shudder, all the way to his toes. “But I figured you’re not into denial.”

Hysteric, Billy laughs, head thrown back into the bench. “Oh, _fuck_, you know I always get what I want, baby.”

Steve hums along, relinquishing his grip; before Billy can protest, he hears the soft rustle of fabric, then feels another cock against his own, Steve’s grip holding them together, steady and firm. “You looked so hot out there,” Steve babbles as his hand begins to move, slicked from sweat and precome. Overcome, Billy just holds on, palming Steve’s ass and moaning against his lips. “Never seen you look like that before.”

“Knew you were—checking me out,” Billy says. His foot slips on the bench and falls into the footwell, allowing Steve to take advantage and further pin him into the leather. The new angle brings them closer, Billy trapped by Steve’s weight, Steve laving kiss after kiss into his throat, down to his collarbone.

Despite the claustrophobia of the backseat and Steve blanketing him, it feels intimate in a way Billy can’t describe, completely unlike anyone he’s ever been with. Like Steve actually cares about whether he lives or dies, like Steve loves him—and hell, after all this, he probably does. “Just—kiss me,” Billy says—begs, even. “Don’t you dare stop—”

Steve cuts him off with a kiss, all tongue and no finesse; Billy tightens his grip on Steve’s ass and rolls his hips, his breaths clipped, uneven. “It’ll be good,” he say, intentionally cutting off Steve’s next kiss. Foreheads pressed together, he lets go of Steve’s hair and licks a stripe up his palm, taking their cocks in hand, fingers laced between Steve’s. _God_, Steve has a nice cock. “Feels good like this, it’ll be even better in my ass.”

“You’ve gotta stop talking,” Steve says, flicking his wrist just slightly—and all Billy sees is the inside of his eyelids when he comes, a fire licking through his veins, beginning to smolder. Come paints their joined hands, and Steve uses it for leverage, his stroke quickening, even the noise of it too much to bear. “Want to,” Steve whispers into his eat, all while Billy twitches, the grip on his cock verging well-past oversensitivity. “Wanted to, since I first saw you. Thought about your ass—”

“Shit, _shit_,” Billy half-shouts, eyes rolling back. _Right there, right there_—

Steve opens his mouth, presumably to continue on his senseless rant—he comes instead, smothering his moan into Billy’s cheek while his cock spills, deepening the mess between them. And only then does he let go, sucking in breath after breath; Billy kisses him when he comes down, ignoring the spit on his cheek and the congealing mess of come between their fingers. Steam coats the windows; shivering, Billy drapes an arm around Steve’s shoulders, holding him close.

“I don’t wanna go back,” Billy whispers, and feels Steve nod. “We could get a tent and just live on the beach. Knew a guy that did that.” _I wonder if he’s still around_.

Physically, Steve deflates, sagging in Billy’s grip. “We have to go back at some point. I meant what I said though.” Lifting up, he palms Billy’s cheek with his clean hand, thumbing just below his eye. “Live with me. You can still go pick up Max or whatever you do, but just… Stay with me. We can rent an apartment, or buy a house, or—”

“Yeah.” Kissing Steve comes naturally, but even more so now, with his limbs loose and mind free. Finally free, after all these years. “Yeah, like that idea.”

“Good.” Steve collapses, wedging himself between the back of the bench and Billy; he manages to drag Billy up against him, bicep under Billy’s head, his other arm encircling his waist. With the night surrounding them, Billy sidles closer, tucking his head underneath Steve’s chin. “Are you happy? Being here?”

Billy inhales, lets a breath out slowly, deeply, until his lungs protest with the strain. “Yeah,” he says, and means it. “Having a pretty face here doesn’t hurt, either.”

“Gee, thanks,” Steve says, but laughs, nosing Billy’s curls. “We should take our time going back. Go see all the tourist spots.”

“Always did wanna see the Grand Canyon,” Billy muses, quiet. Twice, he’s driven through Arizona, and twice, he never did even stop to look at the sign. “I wanna go see my mom,” he says before he can stop himself, shame heating his face. Her, he wants to see most of all. He can probably find her in a phone book, if she went back to her maiden name. If she still has the same address. If she still lives in Los Angeles, most importantly.

“We can do that,” Steve says. Stroking down Billy’s back, Steve kisses his forehead. “I think she’d like to see the new you.”

Eyes closed, Billy nods, and doesn’t bother to fight back the tears. “I hope so,” he says. “Really hope so.”

**Author's Note:**

> I LIED I wrote one more! Because apparently I can sneak road trips into any fandom. Also known as, please for the love of god let me go back to California without being cursed the entire time. I should be getting back to SPN shortly, give me a hot sec!
> 
> Title is from the Ashley Monroe song.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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